


healer's hands

by antagonists



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Drabble, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 22:11:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9405008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antagonists/pseuds/antagonists
Summary: There is a god in his thin fingers, in his eyes and the dreamy strangeness of his voice; there is a man in the wistful way he looks at the skies, and in the way he murmurs Viktor’s name through an incantation.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [perennials](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perennials/gifts).



> ?????????????? just a char dynamic study  
>  ~~pretend i explained everything and it makes sense~~

“But whatever shall you do, poor _Vitya_ ,” the dragon laughs, fire flickering along the trails of its dark blood. Whatever snow has not already melted is stained brighter than the lanterns on the night of a new year. “When you have won all your victories, when your sword falls at last to rust?”

Viktor does not reply and watches the sparks, watches the blood. Through his silence, the dragon laughs and laughs.

“O’ Child of snow,” it croons, “Search for the ice that burns, for life older than the seas. Perhaps there you will find what you seek.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m not interested in peddlers,” the healer says immediately upon opening his door. He seems hassled, face gaunt and cheeks smudged with ink.

“I was told you are the human equivalent of a god,” Viktor says, peering into the small home as much as can without seeming a fool. The trek up the cliffs had been treacherous, a dangerous journey for those less able-bodied, so he probably looks more raffish than he’d prefer. He also can’t seem to stop staring, well, _at_ the healer. “The people in the valleys—they worship you. As a diviner, an enchanter. Yuuri the Sacred.”

Yuuri the Sacred gives him a sharp look, assessing him before turning away. The broadsword at Viktor’s side does not intimidate him, nor does he seem to pay any mind to the dried blood on Viktor’s boots. “I know.”

Viktor sways in place for a moment before taking a step inside. He isn’t struck by lightning on the spot, so he moves in one step, then one more. He has always imagined a god’s home to be more… ethereal, he supposes. Imagined it with less clutter, as more quixotic than _homely_. It smells like a freshly cooked meal, though, with a hint of spice and herbs. He tries to take another step in the general direction of the aroma, and finds cold fingers cupping his chin, tugging him down.

“First, you come in without invitation,” the healer says, a touch amused. He’s standing close, peering up at Viktor with curiosity and something less friendly, “leaving mud tracks all over my floors, then proceed to seek out my supper. A warrior, no doubt. Rather instinct-driven, aren’t we?”

“I—” Viktor says, and stares at the healer’s dark eyes, finds himself scrambling to apologize right away. “Sorry.”

The enchanter drops Viktor’s chin with a small frown. With a wave of his hand, the mess of parchment and ink and trinkets, on what Viktor correctly guesses to be a table, straightens itself into neat, orderly stacks. The mud from Viktor’s shoes crumbles into dust and disappears. There’s a few black feathers tucked into a glass vase, dried flowers laid flat over yellowed pages, a stick of incense with a small glowing eye of ember. A pile of small bones. Viktor swallows.

“Sit,” Yuuri says. Viktor looks around to see that a chair has somehow appeared behind him.

“I don’t wish to impose,” he says, and blinks when the man’s expression goes flat.

“ _Sit_ ,” he repeats, and Viktor obeys this time.

“Most people come to me with ailments. Some of them are quite painful, others are rather peaceful but deleterious nonetheless. You, however, do not seem to be ill.” He sits on the wooden stool opposite of Viktor, legs crossed. His black clothes are simple, far simpler than the ones Viktor has ever worn. “Physically, mentally, or otherwise.”

“Well,” Viktor says, half-smiling, and forces his gaze back to a more acceptable place. “I was hoping you would help me figure that out.”

“You came to me,” the thaumaturge says, a little incredulously, “without knowing what you wish to be cured of?”

Viktor fights the urge to fidget nervously. He’d been hoping for someone more prone to falling for his charms. Perhaps gods—or creatures close to being one—are immune to such worldly shams.

“Unsheathe your sword,” Yuuri says after another moment, eyes narrow. When Viktor hesitates, his eyes glint with the beginning of an impatient spell. It is obvious that he expects nothing but absolute deference. He takes the weapon into his hands, unaffected by its weight. It’s been recently scrubbed clean, as always after a toiling battle. After a brief pause, the healer proceeds to run one finger straight down one of the edges.

  
“Ah—” Viktor jumps to his feet.

“Blood of a dragon,” the healer sniffs, squinting at some invisible mark on his finger. No wound, no blood. Viktor is shaking, quickly quells it and sits back down. It has been a long time since he’s been so worried over human blood. “Did it tell you some sort of riddle before you finished it off?”

“Maybe a curse?”

“Normally,” Yuuri hums, setting the sword aside to tap on a hanging glass chime. It clatters, scattering fragments of light across the room, then slowly comes to a halt. “I would say that it is incurable with typical methods. Spirits and curses tend to be a cleric’s expertise.”

“But you’re a miracle worker.”

“Of course,” Yuuri says. He smiles, lips a bit twisted, looking entirely unlike the healer of legend the villagers claim him to be; there’s a dangerous, beguiling dark in those eyes. All the same, Viktor cannot look away. “Perhaps I will make an exception for you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

They walk past a mountain of crumbling stone. Amidst the rubble, Viktor glimpses hints of chests long since pried open, gold plating scraped off of ornaments and decorative weaponry. There might be shapes of fallen watchtowers, magnificent arches and pillars. Yuuri does not look at the ruins.

“What was this place?”

“Oh, it’s an abandoned castle,” he says offhandedly, looking off into the distance where the skies melt off into mauve, then something deeper. In his humble home, where he wears spectacles while scribing spells in candlelight, his face and eyes are softer. Here, awash in sunset and shadows, there is a fine edge to his eyes. Perhaps _too_ omniscient.

It would not be surprising; Yuuri has lived long, seen many things—surely one man’s heart would not be so difficult to read.

“A castle,” Viktor repeats, and takes one step closer. The healer’s hands are wrapped in loose linens, as if to hide the ink beneath. He has tried sneaking glances at them before, only to feel the clutch of ice at his neck. Human appearance or not, Yuuri has a habit of freezing Viktor’s throat when he gets out of line. The cold burns. “What kind of people lived there?”

“I did, for a time.” He moves forward again, leaving Viktor behind. Past a fallen tree, a rotting stump, a mossy stone bound with rope and spell. “But that was long ago. Now, it is the home of some spirits. A goblin or two. Ghasts would not be a surprising addition.”

Viktor hurries to catch up; the healer had not stopped while he had been gawking. “I’m sure those would be no trouble for you. Aren’t you a—”

“Careful, Vitya.” Ice on his nose, biting. _How’d he know—_ “My history with this place is not something I am fond of.”

“Sorry,” Viktor says. Less than a fortnight since meeting, and he’s apologized more than he remembers doing for the past several _years_. Sometimes, it feels as though a god looks at him, scores through all the prosy pieces of his thoughts and memories—finds him wanting.

But, ah.

Yuuri does not hurt him, no, not in the way Viktor remembers to loathe. There is a god in his thin fingers, in his eyes and the dreamy strangeness of his voice; there is a man in the wistful way he looks at the skies, and in the way he murmurs Viktor’s name through an incantation. He is a healer, after all, despite some of his odd mannerisms. Viktor often wonders why he has chosen to live in a lonely home by the sea.

“Viktor,” Yuuri calls. He is a vague shape in the distance, a stark shadow against the darkening sky. Stars glimmer like jewels in the gradient of dusk. “You’re falling behind. The site’s not much further.”

He jogs to catch up, breathless with the ocean air and tranquility of empty space. There is no cure for a dragon’s curse, perhaps, but Yuuri has agreed to inscribe wards onto his skin.

“A temporary reprieve,” Yuuri says when their steps fall back into sync. He looks to Viktor once they have stepped onto a flat expanse of stone. It glitters in the moonlight, coarse with thousands of thin lines, curving into magic and otherworldly script. “I trust you’ll find what I asked you to afterwards? Curses are tricky business, you know.”

“I will return with what you asked for,” Viktor confirms.

“Good, now kneel.”  Yuuri says. His voice betrays nothing, but his eyes gleam with something sinister. Viktor swallows thickly and obeys, again. He does not flinch when the healer pries his shirt off, revealing pale skin to the night sky. “This may hurt a bit, I’m afraid. Is that alright?”

It’s not a question, Viktor knows that much. “Of course.”

So Yuuri begins painting—black blossoms on Viktor’s white, white back.

 

 

* * *

 

 


End file.
